


Nightlife

by pinkfire



Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: Blasphemy, Drinking, Flirting, M/M, Rock and Roll, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26523328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkfire/pseuds/pinkfire
Summary: Somewhere along the line, any place that smelled like cigarettes, sounded like rock n’ roll, and looked like Hell’s landfill started to feel like home.
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Wong Kun Hang | Hendery
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	Nightlife

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about 4 months ago but now I’m posting her. 
> 
> Honestly? This is just Hendery being hot and Yangyang being edgy for 1.2k.

Somewhere along the line, any place that smelled like cigarettes, sounded like rock n’ roll, and looked like Hell’s landfill started to feel like home. Maybe it was when he picked up his first eyeliner pencil, maybe it was when he threw his bible into a nearby lake, or maybe it was when he knocked back his first shot of vodka at sixteen. One way or another, the Yangyang who used to pray every night and squirm around excessive profanity, stumbled his way into a life of partying hard and daily doses of ibuprofen. 

Church was never comfortable. It felt like everyone could read his mind, like he had to put a leash on his rushing thoughts. For a boy who never had a quiet mind, cogs always turning at maximum speed and grinding painfully against his skull, throwing intrusive thoughts about sex and satanism around like confetti doused in sin, church was the closest to Hell that he’s gotten. 

After years of fighting himself, dismissing his own sexuality, and nearly pulling his hair out trying to keep his ticket to heaven, he found the answer.

God doesn’t exist. 

As he came to terms with his new revelation, Yangyang replaced his faith with a constant chase after thrill and serotonin. Even with heavy metal pounding against his eardrums, alcohol swimming in his system, and rowdy masses of people making a commotion around him, he felt more at peace. 

In the absence of God, he can do no wrong. He can’t mess up. That’s the appeal of atheism. To Yangyang, that is. 

He’s grateful to have a group of friends who are just as, if not more, inclined to live life to its fullest. They often find themselves in grungy bars and clubs, like the new club they’re dipping their toes into tonight. 

It opened just a few months ago, but Xiaojun suggested that they go once the hype dies down. So far, it’s hitting all of the marks for what Yangyang considers to be a good nightclub. Lively atmosphere, killer mozzarella sticks, and most importantly, live music. Live music provided by hot men. 

He’s sitting at a table with his friends, twirling the end of his silver cross necklace around his finger, undressing the lead singer of the live rock band with his charcoal-framed eyes. It’s a good thing he dresses to impress when he goes somewhere new. Black skinny jeans that hug his thighs just right, a Korn t-shirt that’s one size too big, and enough jewelry to hold up an airport security line. Looking a mess in the presence of that man would’ve been a nightmare. 

His voice is fucking phenomenal, and so are the riffs he makes with his shiny red guitar. Talent always makes people more attractive to Yangyang, but this man doesn’t even need any of that. He has the most handsome face Yangyang’s ever seen, with a perfect structure, wide yet striking eyes, flawless skin, an eyebrow piercing that glints under neon red lighting. His hair is obviously unkempt, falling into his eyes in wavy black tendrils, slick and shiny with sweat, but it might as well be intentional with how well it suits him. 

Yangyang rakes his eyes down the man’s lean frame, hypnotized by his movements and rhythm, almost drooling at the sight of his deft fingers working over guitar chords. God, he wonders what those fingers would do inside his— 

“Yangyang!” Lucas yells, making him freeze and drop his necklace with a loud thunk against the metal table. 

He shoots Lucas a look. “You scared me. What?” 

“Are you gonna finish these?” 

“Have them,” Yangyang says, sliding his half-finished plate of mozzarella sticks in front of Lucas. He catches Xiaojun giggling into the throat of a beer bottle in his peripheral. “What’s so funny?” 

“You. Drooling over that guy like a fifteen year old girl,” he explains, tipping his bottle in said guy’s direction. 

Was it that obvious? “Shut up before I rip you a new asshole,” Yangyang threatens, kicking Xiaojun’s shin under the table, causing him to shoot his knee up and rattle the collection of empty beer bottles on the table. 

“Fucking ow!” 

Sticking his middle finger up in the air and sporting an unapologetic smile, Yangyang shifts in his chair to watch the band more comfortably. Picking a table close to the small stage in the corner was one of Lucas’s few good ideas. 

A few moments into Yangyang’s shameless ogling, the lead’s eyes find his, molten onyx catching flashing red lights in a way that’s almost demonic. Looking into any attractive man’s eyes would rouse goosebumps and dust pink over one’s cheeks, but this man has a devastating effect. It feels more like he’s caught under the gaze of a stone-cold killer with a rose between their teeth, and he likes it. He feels the need to squirm under his gaze, but Yangyang locks eye-contact. 

The man on stage breaks his serious, focused expression to pull his lips into a smirk. Still holding Yangyang’s eyes, he tilts his guitar up and sticks his tongue out, running it up and down the side of its neck, eliciting cheers from a handful of girls. It’s honesty a stupid display, but it still makes Yangyang’s stomach twist. 

He needs this man’s number. 

Well, he doesn’t end up with his number. After he left the stage, hot band guy didn’t show his face again. What a shame. 

It’s around two in the morning now. Lucas and Xiaojun are playing darts inside—which probably isn’t the best idea in their drunken state—and Yangyang is outside, leaning against the smooth, rust-colored brick of the building and lighting a cigarette. He knows that these days, smoking isn’t the most attractive thing. It just became an addiction after he lit his first in Xiaojun’s backyard. When you don’t believe in anything but hormones and chemicals, it’s hard not to jump at the quickest satisfaction.

He goes to draw in his third lungful of smoke, but someone plucks the cigarette from his lips. He expects it to be either Xiaojun messing with him, or Lucas lecturing him, but it’s neither. 

“I hate to see pretty lips blowing smoke,” the man explains, tucking the filter end between his own lips and inhaling, disproving Yangyang’s theory that smoking can’t be attractive. He’s wearing the same smirk from earlier as he puffs smoke off to the side. Band guy is lucky he’s handsome, otherwise Yangyang would find this situation a lot more bothersome. 

“In that case, I wouldn’t look at a mirror if I were you.” Yangyang always feels bold, but the beers from earlier are definitely helping. 

The man’s smirk turns into a gorgeous smile, and he drops the cigarette onto the ground so he can step on it. “You flirt back. I like it.” 

Now’s a good time to ask for his number. But before he can, one of the male’s bandmates is tugging him along by the arm, grumbling something like ‘let’s go, Sicheng is waiting in the car.’ While he doesn’t fight against it, he looks back at Yangyang with apologetic eyes, mouthing ‘sorry.’ The action is surprisingly cute. 

Now it would definitely be embarrassing to chase this man down, so Yangyang just has to let fate do what it may. 


End file.
